


dis|inte g r a t  i  o  n

by ArgentNoelle



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Dreams, Loki-centric, M/M, Stream of Consciousness, Torture, idek how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:27:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3752761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentNoelle/pseuds/ArgentNoelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The air draws in a breath, every color standing infinite and frozen between moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dis|inte g r a t  i  o  n

**Author's Note:**

> Loki gets captured by the Chitauri before the Avengers. AU-ish.

Beautiful. And it is too much, with nerves still screaming from the void, where everything was absence, emptiness, naught, and even the air now seems thick and confining about him, each small brush cascading fiery, tingling, down and down until he is shaking with—is it pleasure? He hardly knows anymore—pain, pleasure, it comes together in a wave of _too much, too much_. The air thick about him and the warm rough damp of skin that bruises with a touch (he doesn’t seem to notice) and even with the lights low and dim in this glass-sided prison (refuge) the light burns him, pierces his eyelids and makes him almost blind but still he can see the shine of that light as it plays off on Thor unheeding as though he does not even notice. The sounds scream through his ears rising to a crescendo of all the little noises that are not important but he has forgotten, each one making him jump and startle and even in the realm of sleep he can find no solace because the world is yet there, and it does not leave him. (But he is home, and he is safe, and Thor is speaking endless murmurs, sounds that slide and hiss and take up each note like an endless song) “What will you do?” he asks, and where they touch it burns more than fire ever could, he is almost insensate but still he feels the words caught in his throat waiting for him to speak (he cannot speak—why? He has not spoken in—since—) brushed away by wave upon wave of sensation. “yes, yes,” such uncaring power. He looks up and there is nothing but color, colors in what has been so long darkness and nothing but darkness, and he feels like weeping though he does not know why.

“Anything,” he says, the word rasping over tongue unskilled and clumsy from disuse, unmelodious. But the rhythm stills then, the air draws in a breath, every color standing infinite and frozen between moments. Only a moment; yet long enough for him to gather himself, meet the gaze above him, and Thor is watching him with far-away eyes as though he is not there. “That is all I ask,” he whispers, leaning down to brush close to his ear, and Loki takes hold of his arm, catching it even as the movement sends thorns hot down each trembling arm unused to motion and watches him. There is thought waiting before him, around him, something he has forgotten in the sensations that bombard him from every side, and it is _important_ —Thor smiles. Smiles, a slight curving of the lips but his eyes are cruel in a way that is entirely _wrong_ and he remembers.

The spell is broken, alone in the cold dark. He is crying heedless tears, shaking, shaking, with the knowledge of _lost_ of _monster_ and _unworthy_ and _captive_ that have reasserted themselves. Blood pools and dries between broken fingers and clothes, burns and cuts and skin fractured, useless, but he composes himself soon enough. He is captive of the Chitauri, and it is his own fault. He had fallen into their grasp heedless, as much to their surprise as his, promising them every assurance of aid in their drive to conquer Midgard, driven by hot, reckless anger and the need to be _home_ beneath it all, even as a criminal, a villain—he has always found it easy to lie. Speak, tell them what they would hear and they would believe you. Twine magic about each word so it hums trembling between lips and ear and into the pools of their eyes. Tell them what they want to hear. He had misjudged—they did not trust his promises, given freely as they were, a race more used to conquer and capture than alliance. Feared a trap; punished him for his words until they sat dully on his tongue. _failure, failure_. It was his own fault. He had been too rash, too eager; they had known, had noticed, his words had been hasty, drawn more from his own truths than their expected lies. They had punished him for it, and it was no more than he deserved. But this—this was new. This was different.

Again, the scepter. Power thrumming along it, twisting into his eyes, hiding behind his tongue, forcing itself into the cracks behind the locked rooms and fortresses deep in the dark edges of his mind, and he cannot stop the screaming, rebellious forces from rising up, throwing every inch of self against the intrusion even as he sits behind the fray and yells _stop_ and _please_ and _just let this be over now_ but it is not. The foreign will retreats, leaving him alone and touching the cold floor with sweat-streaked skin.

In between is the waiting: crude instruments of torture and harm that keep each moment on the edge of _too much_ and _oblivion_ , washing out every thought. And yet he knows what lies ahead: what way there is for him to gain their trust, because he was too eager and misjudged. He will not do so again.

In this small room with covered windows that Thor has stepped into with steps that he thinks are soft but announce him with the changing of the air that betray his presence: after all he has suffered in the void he has no need to think anymore, nothing left to prove to anyone, and reaching together there is pleasure-pain dancing on the edge of (something) but Thor is there, holding him, taking him, and he will not fall. “I love you,” he says, and it is an accident, slipping from his throat, and all at once it becomes unperfect.

This time, the emptiness beats itself against his head with hollow laughter.

A bright flare of pain amid the waves that roll and unfold within him: he looks beyond them and does not think, but (later, he will think that they must know he will never be defeated in this way: it is only a diversion, a wearing down in hopes of striking gold: his spirit under all that empty flesh)

And they are on earth, the breeze blowing in the curtains, half-laughing at the (wait) the screaming has died down from his ragged throat “I was there, back there, with the Chitauri,” he says and Thor sits up in the predawn yearning of the half light, indistinct, catching his hand, grounding him. “Do you wish to talk about it?” he asks, with such sadness in his eyes, as though he would cast himself between him and the torments of these remembrances (and all he can think is that this is wrong because it is in no way wrong.) Thor beside him smiles and it is as though the sun slips from behind the clouds. (No, no, this is no torture) but a dream.

Against the wall as he rains blows upon blows against him watching mottled bruises blossom under his fists as he screams and screams, tears falling from his eyes “Why?” he asks. “Why didn’t you search for me, I called, I called for you but you _weren’t there_ why did you push me—”

And for the first time Thor meets his eyes clearly, a hint of confusion on his face, and speaks with bloodied lip but calmly: “You fell.”

The world stands suspended in between bright moments and the dark chasm that trembles under every ground and behind the sunlit walls. The breath has cast itself from him, he is frozen.

“ _I did not fall_ ,” he says at last, furious, wild, every edge vibrating within him and a wave of pure sound behind it rolling and rising:

Tears as he shakes against him. Catching him with twisted fingers so the void cannot whisper in the cracks. But it is not real: none of it is real. Again with the bed beneath them they touch each other hungrily, wolves behind their eyes and anger pressing itself between them like another body. “I never loved you like this before,” he says, and allows oblivion to take him.

The scepter sends its tendrils past crumbled fortresses, the armies huddled upon the ground with a weary sun above, takes hold of the ember glowing within and wraps it with purpose and power. Loki opens his eyes and stands, shakily, twists his mouth and laughs: and they watch him, uncertain, and the look in their eyes is close to fear. He’s _given up_ and it’s not even climactic: there should be stars collapsing, empires falling at his feet, the world breaking along the hinges and seams. To the questioning stares he bids but a word, “We could have done this weeks ago,” and it is weary, and he cannot remember anymore what was so important about mastering himself. “Skipped all the torture;” bitterness resting slick under his tongue. What they want from him: the knowledge that the staff has impressed under his skin. “It’s the exact thing I promised from the very start.”


End file.
